the spins ahead of your time part one
pairings: jaafar jackson x f!reader ——♡—— w/c: 9k+
series masterlist all chapters can be read as stand alones!
summary: working as a wardrobe assistant for a major biopic wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, long hours, endless fittings, and constant chaos on set. that was until you met the leading man, and everything quietly shifted in a way you didn’t see coming.
warnings: fluff, first time meeting, awkward flirting oh my, age gap (7 years), all warnings for this series can be found here!
a/n: this is literally just the build up for the rest of the story tbh, 9k words of pure fluff and relationship building. starts in september 2024 all the way up until january 2025! i did hide a six seven joke in here because i am mentally a child, enjoy!!
The first thing you learned about adulthood was that nobody warned you how aggressively average it was. Nobody told you that turning twenty-one didn't come with a magical instruction manual or a sudden understanding of taxes. It didn't unlock some hidden confidence that allowed you to stride through life with purpose and a colour-coded planner. If anything, you'd become exceptionally good at pretending you knew what you were doing while internally screaming.
Case in point, you were currently standing in the middle of your tiny apartment kitchen, wearing one trainer, one fluffy sock, and staring into the fridge as if another carton of milk might materialise if you looked hard enough. Nothing. You sighed dramatically enough to deserve an audience. "That's actually rude." Your roommate, Emily, wandered past with a towel wrapped around her wet hair and didn't even glance inside the fridge before answering. "You've opened that door four times."
"I was manifesting." You frowned. "They say persistence pays off."
"They also say buy milk."
"...They're incredibly wise." Emily snorted as she disappeared into her bedroom, leaving you alone with your ongoing battle against an appliance that stubbornly refused to produce breakfast. Eventually you settled for the only edible thing in the flat, a slightly squashed croissant you'd bought yesterday because it had been reduced to ninety-nine cents. It wasn't fresh anymore, but it was buttery enough to convince your brain that life wasn't completely against you. You tore off a piece as you searched for your keys. Found your sunglasses instead. Another bite. Oh, that’s where your lip gloss went. Another bite. Your headphones, a receipt from three weeks ago, one lone earring.
"Seriously?" you muttered. Emily poked her head back around the corner. "What now?"
"My keys have entered witness protection."
"They're in your hand." You looked down. "...I knew that."
"No," you admitted around another mouthful of croissant. "I absolutely didn't." Twenty-one and most definitely thriving. You locked the apartment behind you, croissant still in one hand, coffee in the other, handbag slipping down your shoulder every three steps. Los Angeles greeted you with relentless sunshine, as if the city itself had collectively decided to ignore everyone having a bad day. It was unfair, really. How could a place look this beautiful while your bank account was surviving on positive affirmations and whatever loose change lived at the bottom of your bag? You'd moved across the country eight months ago with two suitcases, an alarming amount of optimism and the promise that if you worked hard enough, eventually somebody would notice.
So far, somebody had noticed. Usually to ask if you could cover another shift, or stay an extra two hours. Or explain why the printer had stopped working despite the fact you had repeatedly clarified that you were a wardrobe assistant, not an IT technician. Still... You loved it. Not the overtime. Definitely not the rent, but the feeling that every day held the possibility of something changing. Maybe today someone important would remember your name or that you’d finally get trusted with something more than coffee runs. Your phone buzzed violently in your pocket.
You balanced the coffee against your hip, nearly dropped the croissant, caught both with a movement that could only be described as panic disguised as coordination, and answered. "Hello?"
"Please tell me you're awake." You frowned.
"Oh, thank God." It was one of the production coordinators you'd worked with a handful of times over the past few months. She sounded stressed. Which, in her line of work, narrowed it down to every day ending in 'y.' "I need a favour."
"Those are dangerous words."
"The kind where you become my favourite person." You smiled despite yourself.
"Can you get to Stage Nine in forty minutes?" You stopped walking.
"Thirty-five would be even better."
"Tasha, I'm on my way to the agency."
"Someone called in sick."
"I need another wardrobe assistant." You looked up at the cloudless sky before letting out a slow breath.
"I haven't even had a proper breakfast."
"You've definitely got food."
"I can hear you chewing." You looked at the croissant in your hand as though it had betrayed you personally.
"So?" You smiled. There it was again. That tiny flicker in your chest that had convinced you to move here in the first place. The possibility. The feeling that maybe the next 'yes' could be the one that changed everything. You adjusted your bag, took one final bite of the increasingly flaky croissant, and turned on your heel.
"I already have." You checked your phone. She had.
"You already owe me coffee."
"I'll owe you two." Now that was a deal worth accepting.
"You are officially my favourite person."
"I'll add it to my CV." The call ended, you stood on the pavement for a second, brushing buttery crumbs from the front of your T-shirt. Another random day, another last-minute job. Another chance to prove you belonged in a city that still felt far too big. You hailed the first rideshare that accepted your request, practically diving into the back seat before the driver had even confirmed your name. "Morning," he greeted.
"It certainly is one of them." He chuckled, pulling away from the curb as Los Angeles blurred past the window in streaks of sunlit glass and swaying palm trees. You checked your reflection in the front-facing camera of your phone. Your hair had decided that humidity was now its biggest enemy, a tiny crease had appeared across the front of your shirt from where your bag strap had been sitting, and despite your best efforts, there was almost certainly croissant pastry somewhere on your clothes. Your phone buzzed again.
Stage Nine. Ask for security. Tell them you're replacing Natalie. Wear black if you can.
You looked down. Black trousers, black trainers, grey oversized T-shirt. Close enough. Another message arrived.
And PLEASE don't be late.
You snorted. "As if I have a choice." Traffic, however, had other plans. Twenty minutes later, you were staring at a sea of stationary cars while your driver sighed dramatically.
"There must've been an accident."
"I preferred not knowing." He laughed.
"You got somewhere important?"
"What do you do?" You hesitated. That was always a difficult question. Technically, a wardrobe assistant. Sometimes, production runner. Occasionally, styling assistant. And, depending on the week, professional coffee collector.
"It sounds much cooler than it is."
"So, you're famous?" You looked at him.
"If I was famous, do you think I'd still be taking shared rides?"
"Fair point." Eventually, traffic began crawling again. By the time the car rolled through the studio gates, your nerves had replaced your hunger entirely. Huge sound stages stretched across the lot. Golf carts zipped between buildings. Crew members wearing headsets walked with the kind of urgency that suggested everyone was late for something. Which, from your limited experience, they usually were. You thanked the driver, adjusted your bag and headed towards Security. The guard behind the desk barely looked up. "Name?" You gave it. He typed for a few seconds before nodding.
"You're replacing Natalie?"
He handed over a temporary pass. "Stage Nine. Straight down, second left."
"Thank you." The lanyard slapped gently against your chest as you hurried away. Every time you stepped onto a studio lot, you experienced the same feeling. Like you didn't quite belong there; everyone else seemed to know where they were going, looking somewhat important. You looked like someone desperately hoping nobody asked a question she didn't know the answer to. A production assistant almost collided with you, carrying what appeared to be six garment bags.
Stage Nine was already buzzing by the time you pushed through the heavy doors; the space was enormous, towering lights dangling from the ceiling, camera tracks snaked across the polished floor. Racks upon racks of clothes lined one wall, organised meticulously by colour as steamers hissed. Assistants darted from one corner to another carrying shoes, jewellery and garment bags; the familiar scent of hairspray, fresh coffee and expensive perfume hung in the air. Before you could properly take everything in, "There you are!" Tasha appeared seemingly from nowhere, headset already slipping down one ear. She looked exactly how she sounded over the phone, frazzled.
"Hi." She hugged you quickly before immediately pulling away again. "I owe you my life."
"I'll settle for breakfast."
"Deal." She pressed a clipboard into your hands.
"Okay, listen carefully because I don't have time to repeat myself." You nodded. "Today's actually been going really smoothly..." You raised an eyebrow. "...Which obviously means something had to go wrong."
"Natalie's kid woke up sick."
"She's fine. Kid's fine. I just need another pair of hands." You glanced around.
"So, what exactly am I doing?"
"Steaming, organising, emergency sewing if necessary—"
"I also know." You gasped.
"I thought we were friends."
"We are." She smiled. "That's why I trust you."
"It probably is." She laughed before pointing across the room. "Everything on those three racks needs checking before talent starts arriving."
"Anyone I'd know?" Tasha paused, then grinned.
"Because watching you find out naturally is going to be significantly more entertaining."
You narrowed your eyes. "I don't like that answer."
"I know." She squeezed your shoulder. "You'll be fine." And just like that, she vanished back into the organised madness. You stood there for a moment with the clipboard tucked awkwardly against your chest. Right, work.
You wheeled the first clothing rack into better light and began checking every garment against the inventory list. The rhythm of the room settled around you surprisingly quickly. Within twenty minutes, you'd almost forgotten you'd been called in last minute at all. This, this was where you were happiest. Not because anyone knew your name, not because the hours were glamorous. But because every stitch, every pin, every last-minute repair somehow contributed to creating something. Even if nobody ever noticed. You reached for the final garment bag just as Tasha hurried past again. "Oh, and one more thing."
"Whatever happens today..." She pointed a finger at you. "Please try not to spill coffee on anyone." You blinked.
"Has someone done that before?" She stared.
"The second one barely counts."
"I feel like you're judging me."
"I am." You sighed dramatically.
"I sincerely hope so." You watched her disappear again before muttering under your breath,
"Confidence is important."
A voice behind you interrupted your internal pep talk. "Confidence is important."
You turned so quickly you nearly walked straight into the clothing rack. A hand shot out instinctively, steadying the rail before several meticulously steamed suits could make a dramatic escape. "Easy." The voice was warm. Smooth. Amused. You looked up…oh. Right. That explained Tasha’s suspicious grin. His smile certainly wasn’t helping; it wasn't cocky, not exactly. It was the smile of someone who'd spent a while accidentally making people nervous and had simply learned to find it entertaining. "You okay?" he asked. Your brain, unfortunately, had clocked out. Entirely. Words. Girl, use words.
"Yep." Brilliant, a one-syllable masterpiece. His eyebrow twitched.
"Good." Silence. A genuinely painful silence. You glanced down at your clipboard as though it contained emergency instructions for speaking to attractive men. It did not; instead, it reminded you that Garment Bag 14 was apparently missing cufflinks. How useful.
"I was actually talking to myself," you blurted. Why? Who knows.
"I gathered that too." Fantastic. Death, please, now. You offered what you hoped resembled a polite smile but probably looked more like someone trying not to sneeze.
"Well..." He tilted his head ever so slightly. "I'll leave you to your motivational speeches." Heat crawled up your neck.
"They're usually private."
"I'll consider myself honoured." He started walking away before pausing after only a few steps. "You missed a pin."
"There." He pointed toward the sleeve of the blazer still hanging on the rack. Sure enough, a silver dress pin glinted beneath the cuff. You stared at it.
"Oh." He disappeared into the organised chaos as if he'd always belonged there. You watched him greet a lighting technician with a fist bump before stopping to shake hands with one of the producers. Not in the overly polished, Hollywood way. Just...normally, like he’d known them for years.
"Eyes on the clothes." Tasha appeared beside you, carrying three garment bags over one shoulder.
"I'm looking at the clothes."
"You are absolutely not looking at the clothes."
"...There's a difference."
"Mhm.” You sighed dramatically and returned to checking the rack.
"So..." you said casually, failing spectacularly at sounding casual. "Who's the guy?"
Tasha blinked. "You don't know?"
"Should I?" She looked at you as though you'd just admitted you didn't know who Beyoncé was.
"That's Jaafar." You waited.
"The lead." You waited again.
"Still okay." Tasha's jaw dropped.
"You seriously haven't heard about this film?"
"I know it's some sort of Michael Jackson biopic."
"'Some sort of Michael Jackson biopic,'" she repeated, horrified. "It's the Michael Jackson biopic."
"The biggest studio production shooting this year?"
"The one everyone's been talking about for months?"
"I've been working doubles." She stared for another second before sighing.
"Fair." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "This is Jaafar's first feature." Your eyebrows lifted.
"I thought he would’ve done more.” You paused for a moment. "And now he's playing Michael Jackson."
"Exactly." You glanced across the stage again. Jaafar stood beside the director, listening intently as someone demonstrated a piece of choreography. He wasn't saying much, just watching. Absorbing. Even from across the room, he looked...focused. Not nervous, determined. The kind of determined that made you wonder how many years someone had spent hearing the word 'no' before finally getting their shot.
"Poor guy," you murmured. Tasha frowned.
"The pressure, you don't get to quietly have your first movie when it's Michael Jackson."
She followed your gaze. "No, especially not when you’re playing your uncle… You really don't." Almost as though he sensed someone looking, Jaafar glanced over. Your eyes met for barely a second; he offered the same easy smile from earlier. You instinctively smiled back before quickly pretending to be fascinated by a blazer sleeve that definitely hadn't changed in the last five seconds. You missed the tiny laugh that escaped him before he turned back to work.
Confidence, it turned out, was considerably easier to have before an attractive stranger overheard you attempting to give yourself a motivational speech. You picked up the clipboard with as much dignity as you could salvage, which wasn't much. A voice carried across the room. "Jaafar, costume fitting in five!"
"Coming!” You glanced up instinctively. He was already halfway across the stage, weaving between camera operators and lighting rigs with the sort of ease that suggested he'd been here for weeks. Crew members stopped him every few feet. A makeup artist straightened the collar of his hoodie; one of the producers clapped him on the shoulder. Someone from sound asked if he'd had breakfast; he answered every single person. Not rushed or dismissive, just pure kindness. Interesting. "So." You nearly jumped. Tasha appeared beside you, holding two garment bags and a cup of coffee she'd somehow acquired from nowhere. "I've got good news."
"No."She handed you one of the garment bags. "You're helping with Jaafar's fitting." Your stomach performed an impressive backflip.
"I think you should've led with that."
"I wanted to enjoy watching your face."
"I've accepted that." She took a sip of her coffee. "He doesn't bite."
"I wasn't worried about that."
"I'm worried I'm going to accidentally stab him with a pin."
"I don't think that's comforting."
"It wasn't supposed to be." You sighed.
"I've known you for six months."
"I think you're getting meaner."
The fitting room wasn't really a room. It was a sectioned-off corner of Stage Nine hidden behind portable dividers, mirrors surrounded by bright bulbs and several clothing racks organised with military precision. You immediately felt calmer; clothes made sense. People, people were significantly more complicated. You hung the final jacket onto the rack just as footsteps approached. "Hello again." You turned, Jaafar, of course. Without the cap this time, his curls slightly flattened, as he offered the same easy smile you’d already decided was dangerously disarming.
"Tasha said you're rescuing wardrobe today."
"I've been promoted from emergency replacement to rescuer." He laughed.
"I like that." A beat passed. "I'm Jaafar."
"I know." The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to throw yourself into the nearest garment rack. His eyebrows lifted.
"I mean," Excellent. Keep digging. "I know because everyone keeps saying your name."
"I wasn't weirdly researching you."
"I mean..." You rubbed your forehead. "I've made this much stranger than it needed to be."
"A little." He smiled. "But it's alright." Thank God. He stepped closer to the rack, running his fingers across one of the costume labels.
"So..." You cleared your throat. "I'm—" Before you could introduce yourself, "There you are." the costume designer swept in carrying another armful of garments. "Jaafar, we're trying the red look first." He nodded immediately.
"And," She looked at you. "You must be..." You gave your name. "Perfect." She smiled. "Would you mind helping him change? Just checking the fit, making notes if anything needs altering."
"Oh." You nodded. "Yeah, of course." She disappeared as quickly as she'd arrived, once again leaving you alone with Jaafar. Amazing.
"This one's incredible." Jaafar turned slightly in front of the mirror, smoothing down the front of the crimson military-style jacket. You crouched to pin the trouser hem.
"I was hoping you wouldn't say that." You laughed.
"I'll try not to spill coffee on it." He looked over his shoulder.
"Is that a concern?" A laugh fell from your lips as you rose from the ground.
He looked in the mirror again. "What do you think?" For a second, you forgot to answer. The resemblance wasn't identical, but it was damn near close. Something in the posture, the way his shoulders settled, the concentration in his face. You could suddenly imagine him under stage lights, performing, carrying an entire film.
"I think..." You met his eyes in the mirror. "...You're going to make a lot of people cry." His smile faltered, just for a second.
"That's the goal." The confidence from earlier? It disappeared, only briefly. But long enough for you to notice.
"I've had practice." He looked back at his reflection. "If this goes badly..." a pause ", It'll go badly in front of the entire world." You found yourself smiling.
"I don't." You folded your arms. "But everyone out there believes you can do it."
"I think they're probably right." Recognition: two people standing at very different points in their lives but feeling exactly the same uncertainty. You'd both spent years waiting for someone to give you a chance. A knock on the divider broke the silence.
"We're ready for camera blocking!" Jaafar blinked.
"Coming." He turned back to you. "Thanks."
"For pinning your trousers?"
"For,” He hesitated. "The vote of confidence."
You smiled. "Don't make me regret it."
"I'll do my best." You looked back toward the stage where Jaafar was now standing beneath bright lights, surrounded by cameras and crew, preparing for the biggest scene of his career. He looked impossibly calm, but you knew better now. And somehow, that made him seem a little less like the lead actor in Hollywood's most anticipated film. And a little more like the man who'd admitted to a wardrobe assistant he'd been terrified all along.
Six days later, you'd discovered there were exactly three guarantees when working on a major film: the coffee would never stay hot. Someone would always be looking for a missing shoe, and Jaafar Jackson somehow managed to appear wherever you happened to be. Not in a creepy way. In a statistically improbable way. It started with small things. A "Morning." A "How's wardrobe surviving today?" A sarcastic comment about someone insisting on wearing white trousers five minutes before lunch. Nothing substantial, just enough that somewhere between Monday and Thursday, saying hello to him had stopped making your heart threaten mutiny.
"You're smiling." You looked up from the sequinned jacket you were steaming. Georgia, from hair and makeup, wandered into wardrobe carrying three wigs balanced precariously in her arms.
She looked at the jacket, then at you. "It doesn't seem particularly funny."
You narrowed your eyes. "You people are exhausting."
"That's not what networking is." Emily grinned.
"If it makes you feel any better, everyone's gossiping."
The steamer hissed loudly enough to cover your groan. "Oh, brilliant."
"We've spoken approximately six times."
She leaned closer. "I think he likes talking to you."
"What does that even mean?" She simply smiled, returning to her task at hand. Infuriating woman.
Filming had run almost three hours behind schedule. Again. By half past eight, the studio lot looked completely different. The chaos had softened, golf carts were fewer, relentless shouting had become quiet conversations. Someone in lighting was playing soft R&B through a portable speaker while they adjusted rigs for tomorrow morning. Wardrobe was finally almost finished; you zipped the final garment bag closed before stretching your arms above your head. Your spine rewarded you with several alarming cracks. "Ouch."
"You alright?" You looked over. Jaafar. Of course. He was carrying a bottle of water and had changed out of costume, black joggers replacing the tailored trousers he'd worn all day.
"You know..." You rolled one shoulder. "I don't think humans were designed to stand for fourteen hours."
"They definitely weren't." He glanced towards the racks. "You done?"
He smiled tiredly. "I've danced for twelve hours."
"I think my legs are threatening legal action."
You laughed. "I'd support them."
"I thought we were friends."
"I've known you six days."
"Mutual emotional support."
"You've skipped several friendship milestones."
He nodded seriously. "Next week I'll probably ask you to help me move house."
"I'll suddenly become very busy."
"Realistic." He laughed again. You were beginning to realise something; Jaafar laughed easily. Not the polite little chuckle people did in conversations; he genuinely laughed, head tipping back and eyes crinkling. As if he’d forgotten anyone else was watching.
"So,” He nodded towards the now-empty stage. "Wanna see something?"
Your eyes widened. “Seriously?"
"You've only seen Stage Nine." He looked around. "We've got ten minutes before security starts kicking everyone out."
You hesitated. "I should probably finish—"
"You don't know anything about wardrobe."
"That's actually most of the job."
He looked absurdly pleased with himself. "See?" Five minutes later, with everything packed away, you found yourself following him through winding studio corridors. The lot felt strangely peaceful at night, without hundreds of crew members rushing around; you could actually hear crickets somewhere outside.
"So,” You glanced sideways. "Why acting?"
He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I ask myself that most mornings."
He smiled. "My uncle." You paused, eyes flickering up to meet his as he continued.
"He loved films, directing, acting. Anything to do with media, really.”
"Everything." He laughed softly. " I remember going with my family to rent a DVD every single Friday.”
"'The Wiz, if he’d annoyed my dad enough that day.'"
His eyebrows lifted. "You do?"
"I'm serious." He grinned.
You answered immediately. "'Ease On Down the Road.'"
He pointed at you dramatically. "Correct answer."
"I knew this was a test."
"It absolutely was." You laughed.
Your smile softened. "That's a good one."
"Makes my brother cry every time." There was something about the way he spoke about his family. So openly, without embarrassment. You liked that. A lot. "You know..." His voice echoed gently through the empty recording studio set. "I've been meaning to ask."
"You don't have to sound so offended."
"I wasn't expecting that question."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I realised I had absolutely no idea."
"Hm." He looked you up and down thoughtfully. "This feels dangerous."
"You've got the energy of someone who's still optimistic." He pretended to think harder. "Twenty-three?" You smiled.
His eyes widened. “Oh.” You nodded.
"I would've never guessed."
"You say that like I'm sixteen."
"No!" He laughed quickly. "I just meant..." He sighed. "I've made this worse."
"I thought you were older."
"I'll choose to take that as a compliment."
You folded your arms. "Your turn."
He smiled. "I'm ancient."
"It feels ancient next to twenty-one." For a second, neither of you said anything. The seven-year gap settled quietly between you, not awkward, just present. Then you shrugged.
"I've worked with people twice your age."
"And they complained significantly more." He laughed, relief washing over his face.
"I'll try to keep the complaining to a minimum." You smiled. For reasons you couldn't quite explain, the conversation lingered in your mind long after you'd both left the empty soundstage. Not because of the age difference, but because despite it, talking to him still felt remarkably easy.
If somebody had told you three weeks ago that your favourite part of the day would be lunch with an actor, you would've laughed. Not because he was an actor, but because lunch implied you actually got to sit down. Today, however, the wardrobe department had somehow managed to stay ahead of schedule for the first time since filming began. Tasha looked around suspiciously. "I don't like it."
You looked up from sewing a loose button back onto a jacket. “Being organised?"
"It's unnatural." Georgia wandered into wardrobe carrying two coffees. "Something's about to explode."
"But production has been calm for almost twenty minutes."
You all exchanged the same look. “Yeah." Definitely suspicious. As if summoned by the universe itself, a production assistant sprinted past.
"Who moved the loafers?!" Everyone collectively sighed.
"There it is," Georgia said. "Nature is healing."
You were halfway through eating your sandwich outside behind Stage Nine when someone cast a shadow across the picnic bench. "You mind?" Jaafar pointed towards the empty seat opposite you.
You swallowed. "It's a free country."
"I appreciate your generosity." He sat down with a paper container full of pasta that looked considerably nicer than your meal. You looked at it, and of course, he caught you looking. "Do you want some?"
You smiled. "I have standards."
"So do I." A beat passed. "I'd still share."
You looked at him. "You barely know me."
"You laugh at your own jokes."
"You apologise to inanimate objects."
"I bumped into a mannequin."
"You said, 'Sorry, sweetheart.'"
"It still deserved respect." He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his Michelin star-level pasta. You pointed triumphantly. "See?"
"I absolutely did not." Lunch with Jaafar became easy; conversation never seemed to stop. One minute you were discussing films. The next,
"So you genuinely think pineapple belongs on pizza?"
He stared at you. "I don't know if we can continue this friendship." Across the courtyard, Georgia nudged Tasha.
"They're doing it again."
"The thing." Tasha glanced over.
"They've been talking for forty-five minutes."
Tasha smiled into her coffee. "I know."
Emily folded her arms. "So..."
Tasha looked delighted. "Oh, absolutely."
Georgia held out her hand. "Deal." Neither of them noticed Jaafar laughing at something you'd said, or the way his attention rarely wandered anywhere else while you were speaking.
Later that afternoon, wardrobe was unusually quiet. You were steaming tomorrow's costumes when you heard footsteps. "You busy?" You looked over your shoulder; Jaafar stood in the doorway, script tucked beneath one arm.
"I suppose." He wandered inside. "You know everyone in wardrobe thinks you're avoiding rehearsal?" He sighed dramatically.
"I am avoiding rehearsal."
"Because I can't get one move right."
"You've looked incredible."
"You've seen ten seconds."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I've been practising one spin for three days." You couldn't help smiling.
"The Billie Jean one?" He nodded.
"I either under-rotate..." He demonstrated. "...Or I nearly throw myself into a wall."
"I support you emotionally."
He laughed. "I had a feeling."
"I know, but knowing and believing aren't always the same thing." The sentence lingered between you. It was honest, more honest than people usually were after only a few weeks. You set the steamer down.
"You know..." He looked up. "When I moved here, I was convinced everyone else knew what they were doing." He smiled faintly. "They don't."
"You just get better at pretending."
He looked down at the script in his hands. "I still feel like someone's going to realise they hired the wrong guy." The words surprised you, not because of what he said, but because he had admitted it.
"Sometimes." You stepped closer, just enough that he looked back at you.
"They didn't hire the wrong guy."
"Because every time I see you..." You nodded towards the rehearsal stage. "You're working." He frowned slightly. "Everyone else leaves when they can; you choose to stay.”
Heat immediately flooded your face. "No." One eyebrow lifted. "I mean," Brilliant. "I've seen you."
"I wasn't...watching watching."
"I probably don't." He smiled. "But thank you." Before you could answer, the assistant director appeared around the corner. “Jaafar, we're ready." He pointed dramatically at you. "You've saved my confidence twice now."
"I don't remember agreeing to that responsibility."
"You didn't." He smiled. "I'm taking it anyway."
There was a point in every film production where everyone's brains collectively stopped functioning. Apparently... That point was now. Wardrobe had lost a pair of extremely important sunglasses; hair had misplaced an entire wig. Props were searching for a fake microphone that was somehow sitting in plain sight on the catering table, and the assistant director had accidentally called lunch at ten-thirty in the morning. Nobody questioned it; everyone simply accepted food as a gift. "You look exhausted." You looked up from the industrial washing machine currently roaring behind you. Jaafar was leaning against the wardrobe doorway, still dressed in rehearsal clothes.
"I spent forty minutes looking for a jacket."
"It was hanging on the rack labelled 'Jackets.'"
He folded his arms. "So we're not having our best day."
"I'd appreciate it if you forgot that." You pointed a warning finger at him. "If this becomes one of your stories—"
"Oh, it's absolutely becoming one of my stories."
"Mostly." You couldn't help laughing. It had become second nature now, talking to him. The nervousness from your first day had melted into something much easier. "You free after wrap?" His question caught you off guard.
You frowned. "You owe me coffee."
"I know." He shrugged. "I want to." You hesitated, dinner outside of work. That felt different. Before you could answer, Tasha's voice echoed across the department.
"Jaffy taffy!” He looked over his shoulder with a groan. You had to bite your cheek to silence the laughter threatening to spill.
"Coming!" And just like that, he was gone. Of course, Georgia appeared four seconds later; why wouldn’t she?
You groaned. "Do none of you have jobs?"
"You appeared frighteningly quickly."
"I have excellent hearing."
"I have excellent instincts." She smiled. "So?"
"It wasn't..." You paused. "...Was it?"
Emily stared. "You cannot genuinely be asking me that."
"He could've meant as friends."
"He did mean as friends."
She nodded. "He also happens to be a man who very obviously likes spending time with you." You looked away.
Wrap came just after nine, fourteen gruelling hours. Your feet ached; your back was dangerously close to giving out. Even your ponytail somehow hurt. You stepped outside the soundstage, breathing in the cool evening air. October had finally arrived in Los Angeles; the nights carried the faintest chill. Your phone buzzed. Ride cancelled. "You've got to be kidding." You requested another, nothing, again. Because why would something go your way?
"Problem?" You looked up. Jaafar, bag slung over one shoulder.
"No, obviously not.” You laughed. "I usually get rideshares."
He glanced towards the car park. "I can take you."
"You don't even know where I live."
"You can tell me." You hesitated; every lecture your mom had ever given you flashed through your head. Don't get into cars with strange men. Technically... Jaafar wasn't exactly a stranger anymore.
"No pressure." His tone stayed gentle. "Seriously, I’ll stay while you wait for a driver, if you want me to.”
"I just..." He nodded before you'd even finished.
"I get it." There wasn't even the smallest hint of offence in his voice, only understanding. Which somehow made you trust him even more.
His smile returned. "Okay." His car was surprisingly ordinary, clean, smelling faintly of vanilla and whatever aftershave he’d used. Definitely not the flashy sports car you'd subconsciously expected. "You seem disappointed."
You looked at him. "What?"
"You looked around like you were expecting leather seats that massage you."
He started the engine. "You thought I'd have something ridiculous."
"I thought..." You looked around again. "...Maybe." He laughed.
"I've had it four years."
He shrugged. "It works." Music played quietly through the speakers, not pop or whatever played on the charts. Jazz.
"I listen to everything."
"So..." You smiled. "Country?"
He grimaced. “Almost everything."
"I knew you were judging me."
He pointed at you without taking his eyes off the road. "Your turn."
"I don't have embarrassing music."
"Fine." You sighed dramatically. “I have every word to Hamilton engraved in my brain."
He laughed so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye. "I wasn't expecting that."
"You shouldn't ask questions you're not prepared to hear the answers to." Traffic slowed; the city glowed around you. Neither of you rushed to fill the silence; it wasn’t awkward, just comfortable. Eventually he spoke again.
You looked out of the passenger window. "Sometimes."
"And my dog." He smiled, pulling up outside your apartment building.
"So..." He put the car into park. "Here we are."
"You're welcome." You reached for the door handle, then paused.
"Dinner." He looked at you. "I'd like that."
His expression softened. "Yeah?"
You smiled. "I figured we'd start there." He laughed quietly.
"I think that's probably a good idea." You climbed out of the car.
"Night." You stood there long after his taillights disappeared around the corner, completely unaware that someone had been watching the entire exchange from your apartment window. Emily. She pulled out her phone, typing a message into the group chat.
Emily: You owe me and Tasha lunch.
Emily: He drove her home.
Emily smiled to herself. "Definitely Christmas."
"You've got something..." Jaafar pointed vaguely towards your face.
"There." You rubbed your cheek.
"No." He laughed. "Other side."
You switched hands. "This one?"
You sighed dramatically. "You know, you're being incredibly unhelpful."
He stepped a little closer. "Can I?" You froze for the briefest second.
"...Yeah." His hand lifted slowly. Just enough for the back of his fingers to brush your cheek before he plucked away a tiny silver sequin.
"There." He held it between his fingers. "You've been sparkling for about twenty minutes."
You stared at the sequin. "Oh."
"I thought you were making a statement."
"I figured." He dropped the sequin into your palm. "There."
"Thank you." Your fingers closed around it.
"No worries." Neither of you moved. Just for a second. "Jaafar!" The assistant director's voice echoed across the stage. He closed his eyes. "I swear he has impeccable timing."
You smiled. "I'll let you go."
He started walking backwards. "See you at lunch?"
"If wardrobe doesn't explode."
It did, explode that is. Three jackets required emergency alterations, a zip snapped, and someone misplaced a pair of custom-made loafers worth more than your monthly rent. By one o'clock, you hadn't eaten. By two, you were running almost entirely on caffeine. By three, your hands were shaking slightly as you tried to thread a needle. "Hey." You looked up; Jaafar frowned immediately. "You alright?"
"You do." He looked at the half-finished alterations in front of you. "Come on."
"I genuinely can't." Without another word, he disappeared. You blinked. "...What?" Five minutes later, he came back carrying two takeout containers.
"I noticed." He placed the food beside your sewing machine. "Eat."
"You didn't have to do this."
"I know." His answer was so simple that it caught you completely off guard. "I wanted to."
You smiled despite yourself. "I owe you."
"You've sewn my pants back together three separate times."
"I know." He looked almost proud. "I keep splitting them."
He grinned. "So, we're even."
That evening, you were both sitting on the studio steps, paper food containers balanced on your knees. The November air was cool enough that you found yourself pulling your cardigan tighter around your shoulders. "What are you doing?"
"You are physically shivering."
"I am shivering politely."
He laughed. "I don't know what that means."
He held his sweatshirt out anyway. "You'll survive warmer."
You rolled your eyes before accepting it; the material was still warm. "Thank you."
"You look better in it than I do."
You looked up. "Careful."
"That almost sounded like flirting."
"Hm." He took another bite of his dinner. "I guess I'll have to try harder next time." You swore you watched your own soul leave your body. "I almost forgot."
He reached into his pocket. "My number."
"In case wardrobe needs me."
You looked at him knowingly. "Strictly professional?"
He smiled. "You don't believe me."
"Not for a second." You unlocked your phone anyway.
J: The most professional.
J: For making this place feel less scary.
You looked up; he was already halfway across the lot. He turned at exactly the same moment, raised a hand, and waved. You waved back. And neither of you noticed Georgia watching from the makeup trailer doorway with the biggest grin she'd worn in weeks. She pulled out her own phone.
Georgia: They've exchanged numbers.
Georgia looked across the lot where Jaafar was smiling down at his phone while walking. Then towards you, smiling at yours. She snorted.
Georgia: If by "work" you mean they're one conversation away from accidentally falling in love... Then yes. Entirely for work.
The studio Christmas party was, quite frankly, ridiculous. Somebody had transformed one of the sound stages into something that looked like a department store had exploded. Fairy lights hung from the rafters, artificial snow drifted lazily across the entrance every fifteen minutes. An ice sculpture stood proudly in the centre of the room. "For a company constantly telling us we're over budget..." You accepted a glass of prosecco from catering. "...They've made some interesting financial choices."
Georgia snorted. "I've been saying that for an hour."
Tasha appeared between the two of you wearing a sequinned emerald green dress that somehow matched her personality perfectly. "Stop questioning the free food."
"I'm questioning the ice."
You'd spent an embarrassing amount of time getting ready. Your black satin dress skimmed just above your knees, simple enough that you didn't feel overdressed, but elegant enough that Emily had dramatically placed a hand over her heart when you'd walked out of your bedroom. "You've got legs!"
"I've never actually noticed."
"That's a strange thing to admit." Your hair fell in soft waves around your shoulders, makeup subtle, jewellery minimal. You felt... Nice. Not extraordinary, just pretty.
"You clean up well." You recognised the voice before you turned around. Jaafar. You looked up and promptly forgot how English worked.
He laughed softly. "What?"
"You..." You gestured vaguely towards him. "Wear a suit."
"You wear it unfairly well."
He looked down at the charcoal suit jacket before smiling back at you. "I was about to say exactly the same thing."
You raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe you."
You laughed, shaking your head. "I've missed this." The words slipped out before you could stop them.
His smile softened. "You've missed me?"
"I've missed..." You gestured around the room. "...Talking."
"You texted me this afternoon."
"We've been standing together for almost five minutes."
He folded his arms. "So, explain."
You looked at him. "You've been filming night shoots all week." His expression changed almost imperceptibly. "I missed talking properly."
The evening blurred into laughter. Someone from the camera department started an aggressively competitive game of charades; the stunt team somehow convinced half the crew to dance. Tasha won a raffle despite insisting she "never won anything." Georgia absolutely cheated at Christmas trivia. "You Googled that."
"You were looking at your phone."
"I was checking the time."
"You answered before I finished asking the question."
"Lucky guess." She shrugged. By half eleven, the music had slowed, groups had begun drifting home. Outside, the December air was crisp enough that you welcomed the excuse to step onto the balcony overlooking the backlot. Los Angeles glittered beyond the studio gates, quiet, peaceful, almost unrecognisable.
You smiled without turning around. "I needed five minutes."
Jaafar joined you, resting his forearms against the balcony railing beside you. "So did I."
"You know..." He looked out across the lights. "This year's been insane." You nodded. "Life-changing. I still keep expecting someone to tell me there was a mistake."
He smiled to himself. "You've believed in me since before anyone else did."
You laughed quietly. "I don't think that's true."
"They have to believe in me."
"They choose to." He looked at you. "You didn't have to."
Your heart squeezed. "I wanted to."
He looked down at his hands.
"You've become..." He laughed once under his breath. "...My favourite part of coming to work." Your breath caught; he seemed to realise what he'd admitted at the same time. "I mean—"
"No..." He smiled awkwardly. "I don't think you do." The cold breeze lifted a strand of your hair across your face. Before you could brush it away, he reached over, fingers tucking it gently behind your ear. His hand lingered for just a second. Neither of you moved; the music from inside drifted faintly through the open doors. Some old Christmas song, soft enough that it barely reached the balcony. "I've been trying," His voice was barely above a whisper. “Not to do this."
Your heart hammered. "Why?"
"Because you're twenty-one." He gave a small, almost self-conscious smile. "And I'm twenty-eight." There it was, the thing neither of you had spoken about since that night on the empty soundstage. "I didn't want anyone to think,” He shook his head. "That I'd taken advantage of you."
"I know, but I was still worried.” He looked at you. "I kept telling myself we were friends."
"We are." A pause. "But I think I've accidentally fallen for you." The world seemed to stop, not dramatically, not with fireworks or music swelling in the background. At that moment, everything else became wonderfully unimportant.
You stared at him. "I don't think it was an accident."
His eyes searched yours. "No?"
You shook your head. "I think…" A nervous laugh escaped you. "I fell a while ago."
The smile that spread across his face was unlike any you'd seen before, small and almost disbelieving. "You did?"
"I kept pretending I hadn't."
"I thought I was imagining it."
He laughed quietly. "We're not very good at this."
You stepped closer. "So..."
"Are you going to kiss me?"
His eyebrows lifted. "You are unbelievably direct."
"I've waited three months."
He laughed. "I've waited longer."
"You've known me three months."
"I noticed you on your first day."
"Oh." You smiled. "Good."
He closed the remaining distance between you. "Can I kiss you?" Instead of answering, you reached up, gently taking hold of the lapels of his suit jacket.
"You ask far too many questions." His smile brushed yours before his lips did. The kiss was gentle, tentative. The kind of kiss that came after months of almosts. Almost touching hands, almost saying too much, almost admitting feelings. It lasted only a few seconds. Just enough to make your cheeks ache from smiling when you pulled away. He rested his forehead against yours.
You laughed softly. "I think this might be my favourite Christmas."
He groaned. "I'm not a movie star."
"Not yet." You smiled knowingly. "But you will be." His expression softened.
"If that happens..." He intertwined his fingers with yours. "...I hope you're still standing next to me." The balcony doors slid open.
"Oh, for God's sake." Georgia stood there, hands on her hips.
"I told you Christmas." Tasha appeared beside her, triumphantly holding out an open hand. "Pay up."
Georgia sighed dramatically before digging a twenty-dollar bill out of her clutch. "I hate being predictable."The two of you stared at them.
"Were you betting on us?" you asked.
"For weeks," Tasha replied.
"Months," Georgia corrected.
Jaafar looked horrified. "You all knew?"
The two women exchanged a look before answering in perfect unison. "Everyone knew." You laughed so hard you had to hide your face against his shoulder.
There was an unspoken rule between the two of you. Whatever happened on the balcony stayed on the balcony. Not because either of you regretted it, far from it. But filming still had another month left, and neither of you wanted your relationship—whatever it currently was—to become the latest source of entertainment on set. "You two are disgustingly obvious." You looked up from pinning a jacket. Georgia was watching you over the rim of her coffee cup.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Your phone buzzed again; Georgia didn't even have to look.
She sighed dramatically. "You've got it bad."
"You've changed his contact name to a heart."
You instinctively hid your phone. “How did you see that?"
"I have exceptional eyesight."
"I have exceptional gossip instincts."
Later that afternoon, Jaafar found you exactly where he always did. Wardrobe. "I've got a proposition."
You looked up. "That sounds suspicious."
He leaned against the doorway. "Dinner."
You smiled. "We had dinner three nights ago."
"You really like feeding me."
"I finish at six-thirty."
"So why are you waiting?"
His answer came so naturally it almost caught him off guard. “Because I like seeing you." He blinked. "...That sounded smoother in my head."
He groaned. "I walked into that one."
Dinner wasn't fancy; neither of you wanted fancy. A little Italian restaurant tucked away from the main roads where nobody recognised Jaafar and the waiter insisted on calling everyone "my friend." "You realise..." You reached for another breadstick. “This is our fourth dinner."
He nodded. "I've counted."
"I count lots of things."
"I've learnt from the best."
You laughed. "You've also kissed me."
"I do." His ears turned slightly pink; he leaned back in his chair. "I've been trying to work out how to do this without sounding like a middle-schooler.”
"I don't think that's possible."
"I try." The waiter appeared to collect your empty plates. Jaafar reached across the table, offering his hand. You placed yours in it without thinking.
"You know..." He gently traced his thumb across your knuckles. "I've spent the last month trying to convince myself we didn't need to put a label on this."
You tilted your head. "Oh?"
"I thought..." He laughed at himself. "'We're happy, why complicate it, right? Everyone already assumes we’re together anyway.”
You smiled. "They really do."
"They absolutely do." He looked at your joined hands. "But then..." He met your eyes. "I realised I don't want to introduce you as my friend." Your breath caught. "I don't want people wondering; I don't want anyone else thinking they have a chance." He smiled sheepishly. "Which is probably a terrible thing to admit."
"So..." He took a slow breath. "I was wondering..." He laughed again. "I've rehearsed this speech for three days."
"I even practised in the mirror."
You burst into laughter. "No!"
"I've accepted that." He squeezed your hand. "Can I finish?" You nodded, still smiling. "I really, really like you."
"I know you know." He laughed. "But I think..." His expression softened. "...I'm in love with you." The smile disappeared from your face, not because you didn't feel the same. Because hearing it out loud somehow made everything real. "And..." He cleared his throat. "I was hoping..." Another nervous laugh. "...That maybe..."
You couldn't help smiling again. "You are dragging this out."
He closed his eyes for half a second before opening them again. "Will you be my girlfriend?" You stared at him, for approximately three whole seconds. Long enough that panic began creeping across his face. "...You don't have to—" You leaned across the table, pressed a quick kiss to his lips, then smiled against them.
"I thought you'd never ask."
His shoulders visibly relaxed. "Is that a yes?"
You laughed. "That is absolutely a yes."
He let out the deepest breath. "I've been terrified."
You intertwined your fingers with his. "So, my boyfriend, huh?” He smiled so widely it almost looked boyish.
"I quite like the sound of that, my girlfriend.”
"Oh." You felt your cheeks warm. "I really like that."
The waiter returned with the dessert menu; he looked between the two of you, then at your joined hands with a knowing smile on his lips. "I’ll come back later." You both laughed.
The second he disappeared, you looked back at Jaafar. "You know..."
"You asked me one thing."
"I'd like to ask you something too."
He frowned. "What?" You squeezed his hand.
"When your film comes out.” He nodded. "And the whole world suddenly knows who you are.”
His smile faded slightly. "Yeah?"
"Promise me we'll still have dinners like this."
His answer came without hesitation. "I promise."
"No fancy Hollywood restaurants."
"No pretending to be somebody we're not."
"Just..." You looked around the tiny restaurant. "...Us."
He brought your hand to his lips, pressing the gentlest kiss across your knuckles. "I don't care if one person knows my name..." He smiled. "...Or a million."
"As long as I still get to come home to you."
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